


Illusory

by sabered



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Sex, Choking, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Kinktober 2018, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo Ren is a Mess, Loss of Virginity, Orgasm Denial, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 02:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16254689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabered/pseuds/sabered
Summary: "You enjoyed that." To confirm his speculation, confront her with the proof of her depraved desire, he dips a finger between her thighs. It returns sticky, forefinger and thumb smearing slick drops of her arousal into the surface of the glove. The remnants, he spreads carelessly into the hard muscle of her abdomen. A survivor's build, corded with sinew, and still coiled as though she expects she can strike back against him."Too bad," he croons, a false sympathy to rub salt into the wound. "Your enjoyment isn't necessary."





	Illusory

**Author's Note:**

> please head the warnings in the tags. this fic includes dubious consent, power imbalance/power play, non-consensual choking, rough sex, prostitution, orgasm denial, degradation/humiliation, and takes place in a divergent tfa timeline. 
> 
> to clarify, rey is of canon age - 19 - when this goes down, despite kylo ren internally referring to her as a barely more than a girl.
> 
> in short summary, kylo ren personally returns to jakku to search for the droid and desperately tries to grasp at some feelings of control and power by asserting dominance over rey, who has essentially been sold/coerced into prostitution by plutt. if that content bothers you, please don't read!
> 
> this is a fill for day 8 of kinktober, prompts "prostitution" and "angry/hate sex".

The Supreme Leader would think it weakness, but Kylo Ren knows it to be power, control. Domination in a galaxy that Snoke had sworn would bow and bend to him, break to his will and at his whims.

But all that has been left to his hands are the shells of Snoke's empty vows, and the scathing lash of his criticism. _The map,_ a ragged and threatening hiss in the air that seemed to insist: _do not fail me again._

And yet he has. The droid remains beyond his reach, lost to the valleys of sand and sweltering heat on this unremarkable hovel of a planet. Sweat beads along the ladder of his spine beneath swaths of black, but he stays his path. Leather creaks as his fingers flex with coiled anticipation and the churning of his own self-loathing, but neither can contend with the burgeoning desire that has led him into a seedy establishment even Han Solo might sneer at.

Perfume clouds his nose, but there's no mistaking the musky scent of sex in the air — fresh and stale alike, clinging to the threads of the musty cushions that line the floor in mimicry of a mattress. When his eyes skip across a suspicious stain embedded in the frayed silks surrounding it, he turns away in disgust.

His skin is crawling, partially with the need to claw it from his bones. A much larger part won't be rid of this aching, insistent need until he has asserted it upon another. Or so the stories would tell him, whispered in the barracks and corridors, projected across the minds of easily distracted officers. 

No matter. The construct of virginity allows for a sentimentality he has committed himself to shedding, and he will not lament the circumstances in which he will be rid of it. Yes. This, too, he will be rid of. Further proof that Ben Solo is nothing more than a specter, and one that does not deserve Kylo Ren's grieving. He had been too weak to take, too reviled to be touched, too devoted to the Jedi ideals that had failed him.

Destroying the last value Skywalker had instilled within him brings with it a warped delight.

"Your finest," he demands of the skittering slave that scampers to greet him. The modulation scatters it, deepens it; as all others have, she rushes to comply with a ping of fright. _Good._ His heavy footfalls are deafening as he follows after her timid, harried form, but they do nothing to drown out the performative sighs and sharp slaps of flesh behind every curtain. 

Mute, she gestures with a dip of her chin toward the shoddy room beyond, and holds out a shaking hand for payment. 

"Go." Confusion crinkles her features. He does not pause to explain. 

"Say nothing of this to anyone," he orders, infused with the persuasive thread of the Force. It takes hold, as he had thought it would for such a docile creature; with an echo of his own command muttered to herself, she is gone, a treading of light feet that brings her farther and farther away.

He draws back the flimsy curtain, and steps inside. 

Their finest, as it turns out, is hardly more than a _girl._ Freckled and slight, bright eyes that sharpen on him like blades when she takes in his appearance in the doorway. A ripple in the Force draws him nearer, into its well, and —

Ah. There it is. The firm, unflinching thrust of her chin upward — defiance, daring him to come closer, a desert viper that fails to comprehend that it has been defanged and sapped out its venom — cannot overshadow the heady sensation of her discomfort. Apprehension, he realizes, as she peers into the depthless visor. 

He wonders, briefly, what she believes she might find there. Humanity, no doubt, as she has with her clientele. _Vulnerability_ to prey upon, if only to lure their credits into her pocket.

He has no plans to show her either.

She learns that soon enough when she makes to straighten, fumbles to undress him. 

"No." His fingers create manacles around her wrist. It will bruise, he knows; the prospect tempts him to press harder until she grunts. Proud, for a whore. Too proud to express the pain he spies in the wrinkling of her forehead and the set to her mouth, nearly grinding her teeth, but not so proud as to turn away his credits, it would seem. "That isn't what this is."

"Then what is it?" she dares to challenge, scowling through the inquiry. Already, she regards him with an open frustration and disdain few others would dare to show him. It will make splitting her open, whimpering for him like a bitch in heat, all the more satisfying.

"Be silent. And do not presume to touch me again," he rumbles out, deceptively soft, and releases her hand. Wisely, she does not dare to reach for him again, no matter her kindling indignation. He tips his head toward the center of the bed. "On your stomach."

Her compliance does not come swiftly enough for his liking. She is goading him, he thinks. _Knows,_ in how he senses her obstinate resolve to assert an authority she does not have, a power her other customers have allowed her to retain. With him, she will not be so fortunate. With a disapproving snarl that rips through the modulator, he crawls after her as she bends back to recline, an irritatingly slow descent to the pile of dirty bedding beneath her, and digs thick fingers into her windpipe. His hand nearly spans the width of her throat, too easily crushed if he wished it.

"It doesn't matter how I have you, but I _will_ have you." Perhaps it's better this way. Yes, he decides, after a moment of considering her splayed limbs beneath him. There will be no escape like this, no turning from the sight of him above her, nothing to distract from it. He'll _make her_ remember it. 

Her blunt nails snag against his skin, demanding the release of her throat. In retaliation, he bears down with a greater force, and listens as she sputters and rasps and kicks out with frightened, flailing limbs. 

Unseen, his lips curl in satisfaction.

"Stop fighting it, and it will be easier for you," he instructs her, free hand venturing down to grope at a breast through the thin material of her gown, though it hardly deserves to be quantified as such in the tatters and grime it has collected. Every part of her mentally begrudges him that request, radiates disdain, but she slackens pliantly.

"Good girl." Derisive mockery makes it drip as he eases up, but he can scent the change in the air. Arousal, tinged with the humiliation of discovering her body's betrayal. And still she glowers up at him, lips thinned and eyes flinty, to issue a silent challenge he has no issue accepting.

"You enjoyed that." To confirm his speculation, confront her with the proof of her depraved desire, he dips a finger between her thighs. It returns sticky, forefinger and thumb smearing slick drops of her arousal into the surface of the glove. The remnants, he spreads carelessly into the hard muscle of her abdomen. A survivor's build, corded with sinew, and still coiled as though she expects she can strike back against him.

She glances away, nostrils flaring. Gripping her beneath the chin, he drags her gaze back to him with a fiendish enjoyment for the mingling shame and resistance in her eyes. "You're wrong," she tells him simply, but a tremble in the Force gives away her lie. Not even she is convinced of it.

"No? Too bad," he croons, a false sympathy to rub salt into the wound. Grasping the flimsy fabric of her transparent gown, he denies her even that modesty as it tears in a jagged line down the center, reduced to mere scraps. "Your enjoyment isn't necessary."

No doubt she's accustomed to it, a toy to be filled and used and promptly disposed. The disappointment he gleans, then, is absurd — but it is there, nevertheless. She quickly buries it beneath her stubborn resolve, refusing to beg for it as he had thought she might. A miscalculation on his part, but her internal conflict is satisfying on its own merit.

It will suffice. As does the rasp of a noise that punches out of her lungs when she finds that he has shed his trousers down to his thighs, thick and large and straining against her entrance, thrusting aimlessly between her folds, incidentally bumping her clit on each upstroke. Fingers grasp at her hips and dig into the soft, thin flesh, futilely struggling to pull her onto his leaking cock to no avail. 

"What's the matter?" The surprise of hearing her speak once more, crisp and clear, is lost on him. His humiliation overshadows it, pride wounded by her sudden awareness of his faltering inexperience. "Don't know where to put it?"

"Quiet," he growls, and promptly reaches between them to circle the base of his cock, throbbing with a desperate, urgent fury that seems to match his own. Without warning, he plunges inside, shuddering at the wounded animal noise it forces from the back of her throat. Wetness eases his way in, but a squeezing resistance drives him to rear back midway to sinking to the hilt. 

"Open to me." The demand is punctuated by another stab forward, ruthlessly stretching her open for his cock. The girl's feet plant into the mattress, writhing; whether from pleasure, or from a fruitless effort to escape his rough, single-minded pursuit of his own release, it hardly matters. The end result is the same; his weight pins her, broad hands engulfing her shoulders, to drag her back onto his dick with a snarl.

"This is where you belong," he tells her, guttural and choked, in the spaces between her ragged exhales. A feeble effort to combat him, deny him access to her voice. He strikes deeper, ignoring her wince, in a misguided attempt to elicit what she means to deny him. "Beneath me. Panting for my cock like the whore you are."

The muscles in her cunt contract, just as her fingers bundle the sheets swimming around her, and coat his cock in a new surge of her fluids. Eager to keep him buried, he thinks, with a renewed sense of satisfaction. Encouraged by the reaction, he pulls harder — and harder still, using her as a limp rag doll, fucking into her with a brutal strike of his hips.

They knock into the bony curvature of her own with every impact, but he sinks into the pain, welcomes it for how it distracts from the tight, warm wet sheath of her cunt as it strangles him. Threatens to wring him dry, massaging his cock, clamping like a vice.

It ends too soon.

The illusion of control leaves him in the same moment he spasms above her and spends himself, filling her with hot streams of cum until it's overflowing, trickling out around his cock as he gasps for breath. And then he's pushing off of her, shoulders trembling as he observes her drip, her swollen, abused cunt pulsing — empty, and ravenous — at the sudden loss of him. 

A grief they share, it seems. Pathetic. It's pathetic in how he aches to regain that power, fall into the distraction of her cunt, soft and pink and glistening enticingly.

Even though he can't look away from the sight, even though the tips of his ears burn in impotent shame, he proceeds to tuck himself away with a detached, perfunctory air despite what has just transpired. His softening cock is cold against his thigh, sticky still from their drying fluids; he grimaces, irritated at the discomfort, and tosses a credit chip at her feet. 

When he spares her a glance, she looks impossibly pleased with herself, knowing he has erupted like a pathetic teenager on first contact. Frustrated at his failing, and left more hollow and humiliated in the aftermath, he sneers.

"Mediocre," he announces, but her distinct sense of triumph — even though she has been left used, unsatisfied, overpowered — lingers as he pulls the curtain aside and disappears just as her lips part to speak, eager to leave behind another reminder of his failure.

**Author's Note:**

> please let me know what you thought, and thanks for reading! i haven't written fic in forever so i'm definitely rusty and not completely satisfied with this work, but comments help to motivate me as i try to adjust to writing fic again.
> 
> if there are any prompts/scenarios you'd like to see, i'm going to be continuing kinktober in a separate work/collection of this month's prompts (which will be rey-centric, tbh, unlike this one), so absolutely feel free to drop them below. for now, i'm leaving this one open to possible chapters in the future if i can find the time for it.


End file.
